


holiday snaps

by Snickfic



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 14:32:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18758365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snickfic/pseuds/Snickfic
Summary: “Did we do this before?” Bucky asks.Romanov’s in his lap, fingers tangled in his hair, mouth hot against his neck; she stills. “You don’t remember?”





	holiday snaps

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [body talk porn battle](https://girljustdied.dreamwidth.org/262187.html), whose deadline I just flew right on past. Prompts: Bucky/Natasha, remember, weapon, training

“Did we do this before?” Bucky asks. 

Romanov’s in his lap, fingers tangled in his hair, mouth hot against his neck; she stills. “You don’t remember?” she says, in that voice full of smoke that’s drawn him from the first time he heard it. Well. The last first time. It drew him to the training mat again and again, so he could try himself against her. They sparred barefoot, empty-handed. Wordless. But today when they finished—six to her and four to him, though sometimes it was the other way around—she left her hand on his bicep, the one with skin. He’d followed her to her bunk without a word. 

“I know you were there,” he hedges.

She hasn’t moved, which means she probably will any moment now, slipping away as smoothly as she arrived, and he’ll lose the chance to touch her. His hand rests against her ribs, pressed flat against her inhale and exhale. Her skin is silky-smooth under his finger tips. She’s a pistol draped in satin, soft on the outside and steel underneath.

He lets himself think about that, about the living heat of her, instead of the way she’s looking at him now.

“I was where?” she says at last.

“At the installation. The base, outside Magnitogorsk. Oh-three.” It was maintenance, they told him. It was more explanation than they often gave him for why he did things. They brought him to the complex and put him through his paces: hand-to-hand, staff, knives, a fucking sword. He thinks he enjoyed the sword a little. She watched from the shadows, the redhead, the little spider. “You were always hanging around. I thought they were gonna have us fight.”

She looks at him with a gaze as cool as Siberia in spring. “But you don’t remember.”

He shrugs.

“Maybe you will,” she says, and kisses him.

She kisses deliberately, with focus. Just when he starts to want more, she opens her mouth to him. She’s good at it, he thinks; she got different missions than him. Is he the mission now? Their tongues slide together, and he tastes something sweet—orange juice, from breakfast. It’s good. It’s all good: the inquiring pressure of her tongue, the skim of her hands at his shoulder blades, the heat curling in the pit of his stomach. He slides his hands up her back to her bra strap. She smiles against his mouth as he unhooks it. “Wasn’t sure you knew how to do that.”

“Hey, I got around, you know.” The protest feels like an echo from a time long ago, when he meant it.

“In the forties, grandpa?”

“Hey,” he says again. She’s leaning back, grinning impishly, and he doesn’t know what to do with that. The script he was reciting ends mid-sentence, and now he can only stare at her, at her red lipstick that isn’t smudged at all—if anyone has superpowered lipstick, of course it’s the Widow—and her eyes that seem to stare right into the house of mirrors inside his head.

“Hey,” she echoes, softer now. She leans in and kisses him again, slower. Against his mouth she says, “I seduced you.”

He can’t help but smile at that. “I noticed.”

“No,” she says, a little sharp. “At the installation, in oh-three. They let me watch you for a week, the most dangerous weapon in the armory, and then they told me to disarm you.”

“With your wiles?” 

She brushes his hair away from his neck and puts her mouth to his skin. Her breath is warm, and the words are soft: a confession. “They didn’t specify. I was nineteen, and—” Into her pause rushes a flood of unwanted descriptors. “—and you were a very _efficient_ weapon.”

Romanov never says quite what she means. Or she does, but she says it in layers, all on top of one another: too many signals on one frequency. But she waits patiently in his lap while he sorts it out, until he says, incredulous, “And it got you hot?”

She hums. “So I tailed you, obviously enough for you to get suspicious, and we fought—”

“I thought you were seducing me?”

“—and when I had you pinned, I kissed you.”

He pulls back to stare at her. “How did that go for you?” 

She grins, closed-mouthed, as smug as the canary-eating cat. “Pretty well.”

He reaches back to that time: the dull concrete skies mirroring the concrete under his feet; the sorry, juiced-up convicts whose legs he shattered and necks he broke on the mat, as instructed; and the flash of red hair from the shadows. That’s all he remembers. He shakes his head, frustrated, even though he keeps telling himself he’d rather not know what happened in those blank places in his memory. But he thinks maybe he’d like to know this. “I don’t—”

He stops, stuck.

Romanov’s mouth twists, like she’s tasted something sour. It’s not a pretty expression, and he thinks that means something. He thinks that strangers only ever see her pretty.

Now she’s making that move he expected, slipping off his lap. He catches her, hands on her waist. He doesn’t try to hold her—that’d be a hell of a fight, seems like it’d spoil the mood—but she stills anyway. “Show me?” he says.

The pause is even longer this time. She bites her lip, and he thinks it’s genuine. “Okay.”

He doesn’t tell her how long it’s been since he’s done this—that he remembers, anyway. Probably she knows. She reaches between them and strokes along his hard-on, wilted a little with all the talking. He doesn’t tell her how recently he even started getting those again, but maybe she knows that, too. 

She’s good with her fingers like she is with her mouth. Her breasts brush against his chest, and she smells of something gentle and appealing—a deception, like the lipstick. Silk on steel. He catches her mouth with his. He tastes her superpowered lipstick. He loses himself in the heat of her mouth and the touch of her fingers and it’s—it’s nice. He likes it.

He likes it enough that she lets go of him at last. “You ready, tiger?”

He thinks he is. Shouldn’t he know? He should know, but he’s forgotten how. He says, “Are you?”

She gives him that grin again, slow and easy and smug as hell. “Oh, yeah.”

He didn’t do anything to deserve that. He hasn’t done much at all. To make up for it, he skims his hands up her sides as she lifts up on her knees and then, steady and so certain, she sinks down onto him. “Holy shit.” This isn’t _nice_. She holds onto him, silky-wet and so hot, and it isn’t _nice_ at all. “You feel really good,” he gasps.

“Don’t sound so surprised.” There’s a smile in her voice, but she’s short on breath, and that’s something. That’s familiar from long ago, even if—

“Stop thinking,” she tells him, and bites his lip. Then she begins to move. 

His orgasm is like a rifle shot, sharp and sudden. It bows him over, his face pressed to her shoulder, fighting for breath. Eventually he remembers his manners, though it’s been seventy years since he used them; he reaches awkwardly between them and massages her until she shudders. 

They hold each other afterwards, gasping and sweaty. Finally she leans back, arms around his neck, so casual—but that’s always a lie, with the Widow. He’s pretty sure. She leans back and lifts an eyebrow, and even more than he wants to remember, he wants to not disappoint her. “I don’t—” he says, and watches her face fall. He skims his hands up her sides. “I’ll remember this,” he tries.

She looks into his eyes, and he wonders how he got here, to a place where the Black Widow gives a fuck about him. He doesn’t remember that, either. Something softens, not in her gaze or at the corner of her mouth, but underneath, the steel beneath the silk. 

“Well,” she says at last. “That’s something.”

[end]


End file.
